


of smoke and green fields

by realiteawrites



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Badass original female character, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Issues, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Tommy Shelby, Eventual Smut, F/M, I said eventual turns out its chapter 5, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, PoC, Seriously this show was so white, Tommy Shelby Needs a Hug, chester campbell is an awful person, lots of them - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:15:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28222266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realiteawrites/pseuds/realiteawrites
Summary: "You left for a year and six months, without even telling him.""I don't actually need Tommy Shelby's permission to live my life.""Tell that to him."Emma Brant has lived a curious life. Tommy Shelby has lived a disastrous one. Throughout time they have intertwined and separated, but when they both return from places that are so estranged from Small Heath, him from war and her from high society, they can’t escape each other.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 79





	1. Prologue

_Prologue_

* * *

The train's engine coughed and sputtered as it lurched towards the station. Her carriage was beautiful, though she often thought her carriages were so. The red carpet beneath her feet and the plush seat she sat on felt like the height of luxury and she jokingly wondered how an entire year of beautiful carriages and tea rooms and ballrooms had not made her used to such things. The train stopped, and now that the countryside was not whizzing past her, fast enough to make her feel dizzy, she was able to lean towards her window and appreciate the fields outside. After months in London, she barely got to see farmer's fields, and even when she was at estates, they were only there briefly, in order to move on to the next item on her given agenda.

Once she had her fill with looking out onto the stretching grass, and the few black and white dots she identified as cows and sheep, Emma turned to sole companion within her carriage with a pleasant expression. The man she had kept quiet and pleasant conversation with smiled as neither of them stood. "It seems we will be exiting at the same stop." He remarked. His accent was thick but jovial. She sensed, however, that a far more threatening tone was used often in that voice. Friendliness did not suit it.

"It seems so. Shall we continue discussing my book?" It laid on her lap, only halfway read, even though she had planned on finishing it. "I am afraid our conversation has halted any hopes of me trying to read Dickens without a critical eye." His laugh was hearty, but his inquisitive look once it subsided warned Emma of his incoming questions. They always came, at one point or another.

"Actually, if you don't mind me asking I was wondering-" "Wondering how a half-black woman came to have such a good seat on this train, or moreover, how she came to be able to read Dickens?" She had to force her tone to be even and light. The world's way was not the fault of this man, she reminded herself as he smiled bashfully and nodded. "I am a project of sorts." That was probably the kindest way to put it. "A person whose identity I will not divulge, I'm afraid, pays for tutoring lessons, in etiquette and various academics, and in return for my diligence and applications to my lessons, I am allowed to enjoy certain things above my given station. It's quite a favourable arrangement, on both sides." There. Her little rehearsed speech was finished.

Unlike she had anticipated, he did not press further, but instead hummed and nodded, processing what she had said. "Well, what a curious arrangement, but I have to say you fill all the criteria for a pleasant young woman. What is your business in Birmingham?"

Emma was relieved at the more casual conversation, and she explained how she planned to see her mother, and her childhood home, perhaps enlisting some work for a month or two, as her benefactor planned to be overseas. The earnest excitement in her voice relayed how happy she was to return, though Birmingham was not the centre of the world as London was, nor did it have the clean air of any of the estates she was guests to, it was her own. And it would be the first time she had returned since the war ended. She had fought terribly with her benefactor in July, demanding to go home as soon as possible in order to see them she was refused. Emma was to stay until her studies were finished. And now, almost six months later, her heart ached to see her boys. To see what war had done to them.

"And you? What brings you to Birmingham?”

“Oh just work. I hope to take a temporary position here before moving on.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy your stay here.” The vague nature of his answer suggested to her that she should not press further, and for some reason, she was terrified of angering the kind man across from her. The conversation carried on, returning to Dickens and his works. Emma had no reason not to trust this man but she still felt a little uneasy, perhaps it was her guilt for feeling this way that had caused her to be so friendly with him. Her friendliness was reciprocated making the rest of the train ride amiable but tinged with an apprehensiveness she could not shake. Something about his smile was like looking down the barrel of a gun.

As the train slowed once more, he stood to pick up both of their bags and was thanked quietly. "Well, Miss Brant, it was lovely meeting you. Though I sincerely hope you won't if you ever feel the need to stop by the police station, know there will be at least one friendly face there for you."

"I will certainly keep that in mind, Mr Campbell."


	2. Chapter One - Burnt Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma reunites with her mother and prepares to meet the Shelbys once more.

Chapter one

“Six months.” With the pleasantries and excitement of Emma’s return over, her mother had wasted no time. Emma stared into her tea, wondering if it could swallow her, rather than the other way around. The fake china felt homely and more comforting than any of England’s finest teaware she had been able to hold over her time away. The set was probably the most expensive thing in the shoebox of a home she grew up in. Though, no home on Watery Lane had ever boasted of delicate niceties.

“That man keeps you away for six months after the agreed date.” Her mother, who had taken the English name Joanne years before Emma was born, looked tired. Her beauty remained, dark smooth skin, plump lips, eyes like the night sky, her hair braided long and then tied up in cloth, Joanne Brant was a sight to behold no matter what. But now, as she paced the wooden floor, dressed in a poorly made black button-up and a long brown skirt, her usual lithe and towering frame now looking sallow and hunched over, guilt pierced Emma’s stomach as she looked upon a woman who had aged not with time passing but with worry. 

“I had not finished my studies by the time the year was up. What with the war and everything, tutors often had to leave to go serve. Not to mention him himself going to France” Emma was wise not to say his name. Though the man had changed her life, her benefactor was not looked upon kindly by her mother, and she did not want to cause more upset by uttering his name in front of her. She also felt a little ridiculous keeping on the ‘proper’ accent that she had been taught in front of her mother, even though she had been cautious to keep it on the train whilst talking to the intimidating officer. 

“What and it took him six months to find another fucking tutor? Don’t you dare try to pull wool over my eyes, dear.” Her mum lit up a cigarette and inhaled quickly as if she only had a short amount of time to speak. “That selfish prick just wanted to see how long he could keep you under his thumb.”

Emma raised her eyebrows at her mother's language and smoking. It was not that she wasn’t used to either - growing up around the Shelby’s gives one a certain tolerance for it, and Emma did it herself. She just was not used to it from her mother. “I see you’ve been spending a lot of time around Polly in my absence.”

Her mum hummed. “Can you blame me? Over the past year, with you and the boys gone, Small Heath has become a ghost town. And when they returned they were practically ghosts themselves” Breathing out, smoke filled the air in front of her mother and through it, she almost seemed young again. “When are you seeing them?”

“Today, I think.” Emma tried to ignore the nervous pit in her stomach. 

“Well, go to the shop before Garrison. They will want to see you in good lighting, and you don’t know who will be at the pub.” The warning was implied, but she picked up on it immediately. What her mum meant was ‘you don’t know if someone who just sees you as a black bitch will be there’. Being close to the Shebly’s gave her and her mother protection from such people but Emma guessed over the war it was harder to enforce it. Guilt washed over her again as she wondered what her mother had to go through to give her that warning.

“I’ve done your room up for you so you can go freshen up before you leave, and put your stuff away. I’m off to the chemists then to meet your aunt, so take keys with you.” Her mum rattled off at least twenty more instructions, and the focused tone of her voice made Emma warmer inside than any tea she could have drunk. She felt as if she was fourteen again, she was about to play out with the boys and Ada, and her mum was telling her all of the things to be worried about. “Oh and Jeremiah has asked if you could watch Isiah on Sunday, I said yes.” By now, Joanne had slipped on her coat and changed her shoes. She stood in before her daughter, regarding her from head to toe. Squeezing Emma’s shoulders, she said “I am so glad you’re home mwari. And look at you! You left the prettiest girl in Birmingham and returned as the prettiest girl in England.”

“I am happy to be home too, mama. And you’re only saying that because you haven’t seen me. Absence and hearts and all of that.” Her mother laughed and let go of her, and as Joanne left the house Emma went upstairs, carrying her bags with her.

Her bedroom was almost exactly how she left it, save for a vase of flowers on her windowsill, and a small bath by the even smaller fireplace. She wasted no time, emptying her bag haphazardly and slipping on a thicker coat. Before Emma was ready to leave, she regarded herself in the mirror. Her mother was right in that she certainly looked different to when she left Small Heath, a year ago. Where she would once wear whatever she could, often brown and itchy, she now wore a periwinkle day dress, and a cloche hat of the same colour, along with blue socks which would inevitably be stained by the mud of the streets below. 

But her face remained the same. Light brown skin, a button nose which was wider set than most, a pink bottom lip and a brown top one which was set into a full pout which hid straight teeth, freckles, and her father’s green eyes framed by long eyelashes. It was her eyes that made most people guess that she was mixed. Her hair was thick and curly, and it poked out the bottom of her hat, hinting at its slightly unruly nature. She knew she was beautiful, but she was still black. Emma had her fair share of insecurities. She had not inherited her mother’s tall, lithe body, but instead took on an average height. Her body was nice enough with clothes that fit well, but there was still a part of her that looked onto the hyper skinny women around her with envy. Now was not the time to dwell on that though. She shook herself and walked away from the unforgiving mirror.

Locking the door behind her, Emma reflected on the fact that she was definitely not the only person who had planned to meet the Peaky Blinders with a pit of nerves in their stomach. And she most certainly was not the only person to have ever dreaded seeing Tommy Shelby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes tommy is coming i promise just gotta set up these extra characters


	3. Chapter Two - Reunions and Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emma sees the shelbys once more.

Chapter 2

The first one she saw was John. His back leaning outside the gambling house, his cap on and a cigarette in his mouth. He seemed to be getting some air before returning inside. Emma knew how stuffy it could get in there. When his eyes finally dragged over to her as she approached, his cigarette fell out of his mouth. Suddenly, Emma felt ridiculous. Her clothes felt gaudy and tasteless, her posture felt terrible, and she felt 10 times smaller than she was. But she’d be damned before she let John know that. “Well, are you just going to stand there gaping or are you going to give me a hug?” She said, with a smile that was only semi-forced. 

Hug her he did. Knocking the air out of her lungs and spinning her around, John laughed gleefully as he squeezed her, his cigarette on the floor and forgot about. “Well, I fucking never!” He exclaimed. “John, whilst I appreciate this greeting, I really do need the use of my lungs” Emma laughed breathlessly. He put her down gently and looked her up and down. “You look….posh.” 

Ignoring the strange hurt the statement gave, Emma gave a bemused face. “Well we can’t be having that can we?” And with a reach of her arms, she had donned John’s cap and placed her own hat onto him. He rolled his eyes and swapped them back. She frowned at that but dismissed it, she couldn’t expect him to be as playful as he once was. 

“Here y’are. Let’s go see the others, eh? Pols might faint on the spot when she sees you.” John led her through the house, and Emma remarked on how it seemed to be busier than when she was last there. “Oh yeah, Tommy has got this place running like a fucking warship.” 

John practically dragged Emma into the small room at the back of the house. The room for hushed arguments and silent threats. And they were all there, of course. Ada was the easiest to look at, they had kept a healthy correspondence over letters and the occasional phone call, and looked well enough. Then Polly, who looked at her with shock and reverence. Polly stopped sending her letters when business became difficult, and whilst she had not been the first not to reply, Emma still felt guilty that they had not talked. Arthur, like John, swept her up in a hug. “Look at you, my girl!” His voice had aged, but his moustache ticked her neck as it always had, and Emma squeezed him back as hard as she could. Ada and Polly followed suit, and once Polly let go, she grabbed Emma’s face. “Come into the light girl, let’s look at ya.” She stood patiently, feeling comfortable whilst Polly looked her up and down. This surely would have looked odd to any stranger, but it was known that this is how Polly cared for the women close to her. 

And despite Emma’s inner assertion that nothing had changed about the way that she looked, Polly felt that she was looking at a totally different young woman. The clothes were expensive, yes, but more importantly, the young girl Polly once knew would have squirmed underneath her gaze and whined about wanting to go to the Garrison, or down to see one of Curly’s horses. Excluding a slight blush to Emma’s cheeks, there was no hint of that impatience. Her skin had a healthy glow to it, which stood out from the Shelby’s who had seen barely any sun in months. Small changes, like her posture and her resting face, no longer a defensive scowl, but a warm, kind expression, all of these tiny, gigantic things, created a woman who belonged in high society, not in the back room of a gambling den. 

“My... you look, lovely sweetheart,” Polly said, patting her cheek affectionately. 

“And I am without a doubt stealing some of your clothes, that frock is beautiful, Emma!” Ada said, fingering the bottom of the dress. The silk was soft between her fingers, and she had to wonder how on earth Emma could afford it. 

“Yes, yes, it is wonderful having the princess return to the castle.” His voice struck Emma in the guts. She whipped around to face him, the one man whose look she had been avoiding since she stepped foot in Birmingham. “Hello, Emma.” God, looking at him was like looking into a freezing cold lake before you jumped in. Or in her case are pushed. 

“Hello, Thomas.” She did not mean for her more high-class affectations to appear, but they did. As if she wanted to create distance between the two of them. But, she did not want to start a fight the moment she arrived. More for the sake of the others than for either of them, she pulled him into a hug. 

She smelt the same. That was Tommy’s first thought. Whatever soap she was using when they were kids, she had fucked off to London or wherever she went and taken it with her. Like lavender and honey. She used to be the only good smelling thing in 50 miles. His touch was light at first, but as she drew closer he couldn’t help but squeeze. Like Polly, he tried to absorb every difference there was with her. Softer skin, nicer clothes, posher accent, the fear and regret in her eyes when he looked at her. 

But she smelled the same. 

“C’mon!” Arthur was never good with social cues, he clapped the pair on the back. “Let’s get her royal highness a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg this site is so cool i should have started writing here ages ago. please leave reviews and let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter Three - A Warm Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the gang go to the garrison to celebrate. arthur gives a speach

Emma could not help but silently curse the well meaning Arthur, seeing as he just abruptly interrupted probably the last time she would ever get that close to Tommy Shelby in her lifetime. Though, perhaps if she was good enough to get into heaven she could feel his breath on her neck again.

The walk to the Garrison was celebratory. No one could deny Emma Brant returning to Small Heath was a fine day. Mothers would sigh with relief and tell their children that  
“that little brown girl is the only one in the world who can even out the Blinders tempers. The best place to be in life is on ‘er good side and all.”

And as she returned, no doubt the stories of her and the Shelbys would kick up, half baked in truth, and swirl around the town like dust.

“That Emma Brant, she’s the bastard child of an African voodoo witch and a Lord, you can see it in ‘er eyes. I heard, before the war, she cursed the Shelbys to protect her, so now you can’t even look at ‘er the wrong way without ‘aving Arthur blind ya”

Though sometimes it did feel like a curse,the truth of the Shelbys’ adoration of Emma was a mundane enough story. Her mother was an immigrant of Africa, yes, but before she lived in Small Heath she was a traveller, taken in by Gypsies who pitied her. When she fell pregnant, Joanne knew that she wanted a better life for her daughter, so the people she travelled with informed her that Small Heath was full of Romanis who would aid her. Once she moved onto Watery Road Emma’s mother needed to pay the bills, and the Shelby’s needed under the counter payment, the type of payment an African single mother was made for. She counted bets for them, even helped Curly with the horses.

Polly Shelby, having recently lost both of her children, became enamoured with young Emma and her ‘golden skin’, and looked after her on the long nights of Joanne’s shift. This led to Emma growing up very much as a Shelby in all ways apart from one, the seemingly genetic inclination towards violence. Even as a child, she had a perfect temper, the only problem being her impatience.

Unlike Arthur, John, Tommy, even Ada at times, Emma never needed to hit or scream to get her point across, though she was quite the sulker. This distinction continued as they grew up. It was undoubtedly useful having Emma around, as she helped ease the wrath of the growing Shelbys. She seemed to form a bond with Tommy in particular, though it was clearly platonic as he had his heart set on Gretta, and regardless it was improper, even for the Shelby family, for interracial marriage to occur. Nevertheless, there are countless men who still have their sight thanks to Emma talking Tommy down.

How they went from that to barely being able to look at each other inside the Garrison was a different story.

It took Johnny, Arthur and Ada approximately two and a half hours to get drunk. Emma was starting to feel it after three but was mindful to order a water or two to pace herself. “Right!” Arthur's voice bellowed across the pub. “I would like to propose a toast-”

“Fuckin hell, he always does this when he’s drunk,” Emma murmured to the barmaid. She was new, or at least new to her. She could have been here for a damned year and a half Emma reminded herself, and you would have no idea.

“-to me good friend, and honorary Shelby, Emma Brant! May your return here be the start of many happy years and may Tommy never fucking scare you away again!” The cheer and laugh of those around covered the blanche of Emma’s face. She turned to the barmaid.

“The backroom isn’t locked is it?” The barmaid shook her head, pretty blonde hair swaying with her.

“You are far too pretty to work here” Emma hummed, before leaving quickly, praying for a little privacy, before she had to inevitably join her friends once more.

The backroom here had not changed much either. The floor was still sticky from beer, and the voices of those outside were muffled and incomprehensible. Emma lit a cigarette in order to try and forget the memories of this particular room. Facing the barrels of Guinness, she began to count each bump on the wood, like she did when she was really little, and Polly used to bring her here with a man friend.

When the door opened behind her, she recognised his footsteps first. She memorised each gait of the Shelby family from long-forgotten games of hide and seek. Ada would tiptoe, her feet light and ballerina-like, both John and Arthur would march, but Arthur’s feet were heavier against the wood. But the steps behind her were deliberate, calculated and planned. The steps of the boy who would always find her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the lovely comments! apologies if these chapters are considered short, i am still trying to figure out my pacing


	5. Chapter Four - Backrooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tommy confronts emma

“What do you want, Tommy? “ Emma’s tone was definitely not even, even though she wanted so badly for it to be so. She couldn’t let him win over her. That was the condition she had given herself over coming home. If she were to come back, and most likely undo all of the etiquette training she had done, she could not, ever, let Tommy fuckin Shelby get one up over her.

“Arthur gives quite the speech, doesn’t he?” Tommy’s tone was smug, and there it was, the anger that only he seemed to spark in her. He surely could not be angry at her for that. For what Arthur said? Did he think she had some sort of control over his older brother? Everybody knew that Arthur would say stupid shit, and here she was, getting punished for it. Fucking ridiculous. 

“Don’t blame his words on me, if you have a problem with your brother, it isn’t me you should be talking to. In my eyes, _Thomas,_ ” there was that affectation again, speaking down to him as if he were a child and not several years older than her, “there is no reason for you to be talking to me.” She took his silence as a victory and began to leave. It was not until she reached the door that he responded. 

“Scared you away?” He took her arm and pushed her into the wall of barrels, his eyes intense and angry. Emma’s breath quickened, and she looked up to him, unsure of what to say. He was the only one in the world who rendered her speechless. “Is that what you said I did to you?” Tommy’s free hand reached up, caressing the side of her face. 

Leaning in, he whispered, “are you scared right now, little princess?” He could hear her breath quicken, but not out of fear. “I’m sure, if I were to reach under your pretty little dress, we would see how I have frightened you, eh?”

“Tommy-” Her voice was weak, and she could barely stand with him so close. 

“C’mon princess, I wanna see just how scared you are.” Her legs fell apart without protest and his fingers dipped inside her slit, feeling how wet she was just from being near him. “None of them London boys made you feel like this, eh? Five minutes around me and you fall fucking apart. It’s so beautifully pathetic.” 

Tommy removed his hand, fingers soaked, and pushed them inside Emma’s mouth. “What, no words of condescension? No ‘ _Thomas_ ’” He mocked her as he stared, transfixed on the movement of her mouth, dutifully taking in his fingers. As obedient as she always was, before all the shit and the gore he had to face. She was like a time capsule of everything once good and pure within his life. He was determined to ruin her. To make her just as rotten and deranged as he once was. To give her a real reason to be scared. 

“It’s because right now, with my fingers in your mouth and-” Tommy moved forward, pushing his knee against her sex, enamoured with the way her eyes rolled back, desperate for more pleasure. “-and my leg between yours, when we are like this, there is no pretending you’re better than me, is there, eh?” God, her whimpers were like music to his ears. But despite his stirring hard on, tonight was not about pleasure. Tonight was about winning. 

  
  


The gentle manner he used to slip his fingers out of her mouth was in stark contrast to the rough and possessive manner in which he grabbed her face. “Tom-” Again Emma tried to speak, tried to regain some semblance of control. But Tommy shushed her softly, pressing a wet finger to her lips. “Now,” his voice was rough with arousal, “here is what’s going to happen.” Eyes blew out in lust, Emma swallowed and tried her best to focus on what he said. “You’re to call me Tommy, yeah? You’re to drop this whole posh act, and if you ever want things to be good between the pair of us, you’re to never, ever, leave without permission again.” 

Fuck, it wasn’t fair. His hand on her chin, his leg between hers, pressing against her sex. Emma felt as if she was about to burst. And all of this so he could correct her behaviour, which he deemed wrong. Did he even want to touch her? The thought echoed in her head, and as if some spell was broken, she suddenly felt the coldness of his touch, the anger in his eyes, his determination. No, he did not want to touch her, he wanted to control her. And unlike mere moments ago, she now wanted to be anywhere but under his touch. 

Pushing him off unceremoniously, Emma snapped her legs shut. “I am not a little girl, and you, of all people, do not get to tell me what to do. Thomas.” Pushing her dress back down, she was satisfied with the look of shock on his face. “I will talk how I want to. I will leave when I want to, and I am to call you whatever I want.” A polished, accusatory finger prodded at his chest. “And if you ever think of punishing me for that, for doing nothing but living my life, remember that you will be the only one in the entire of Birmingham that wants me to get hurt. Not even Tommy fuckin Shelby has the power to sway the city quite yet.” 

He had not moved an inch, but Emma ignored this, straightening her hat and socks, and walking out of the room. What was it with the Shelbys and backrooms?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is filth oops


	6. Chapter Five - Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma catches up with some family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ATTENTION - this chapter contains the introduction of a Ghanian woman. I have tried my best to incorporate some of my favourite mannerisms of the Ghanian language culture, whilst avoiding stereotype. Please tell me if I have done this incorrectly, or have been offensive in my portrayal.

The days following Emma’s return were full of happy greetings. Whilst yes, her mother and the Blinders took up most of her life in Birmingham, Emma grew up as a coloured child in the lower class, meaning that she knew every black, brown and mixed person in a twenty-mile radius. Every black woman was “aunty” and every black man was “uncle” - for the daughter of a single mother with no blood relations in the country, Emma had more cousins than she could count. And each one wanted to visit, to check on her health. This meant that her mother's house smelt like Jamaican tea, and her mother's mandazi, and Ghanan stew for days. London was cosmopolitan, but there was nothing more exotic than the kitchen of an African immigrant. And with all of this cooking to do, there was no time to think of Tommy and how his hands felt on her body. 

“Do you want another piece, aunty?” The mandazi was growing cold quickly in the room that was only warmed by a tiny fire in the corner. It was one of the few things that she could not find anywhere over the past year, and she was admittedly too embarrassed to ask the kitchen staff to make the East African snack for her. Beautiful pillows of fried cinnamon dough, best eaten whilst they were still warm. Emma remembered when her mum had to save for weeks to get the cinnamon needed for it. 

“Acht, no my girl. You give the rest to them white boys, they’ve been bothering me for bofrot since they got back, and it’d be good for them to give me peace about it.” Emma had given up on correcting her Aunty Esi on calling mandazi ‘bofrot’. It revealed the fact that Esi was from Ghana, whilst Emma boasted Eastern heritage. She also wanted Esi to be in a good mood because when Esi was in a good mood, she became a gossip. And gossip was exactly what she needed. 

“And the Blinders have been treating you well?” Emma asked, her tone light and inquisitive. She knew Esi would tell her anything she wanted to know, but she couldn’t ask directly without her aunty becoming defensive. 

“Oh yes, them people are good people. I was worried, when they returned, that without you, they would become less bothered with how our people were treated.” More guilt. Lately, she had been drowning in it. It was true, in the past, Emma often pointed out how the coloured people of Small Heath would be affected by the Blinder’s actions, and how she would demand protection for them from the well known violent prone racists. But her benefactor wanted to get as much distance between Emma and Small Heath as possible. She had received a letter from him yesterday, asking if her journey was favourable, and after her mother’s health. As if he cared. 

“But Jeremiah is with them, oh. Can you believe it? Our preacher is a Blinder. And that fine Mr Shelby has promised jobs for all your cousins. Isaiah and Finn are the best of friends. Them people are good people.” Jeremiah. He had served with Tommy. But he was close to Emma’s mother and grew even more so when his wife died giving birth to little Isaiah Jesus. “And they came across a stroke of good luck, I heard.”

“Oh?” Emma replied, topping up the fake china with tea. A silent indicator that she wanted this conversation to continue. Her aunty leaned in, a small smile on her black lips, as if they were in a packed room and not her mother’s tiny kitchen, alone. 

“Your uncle got a job at the BSA, with all them Irish fellows. Now, they take no mind of a black man in their workplace, some even see him as a brother in kind, oh. The other night, they heard of a robbery. Turu, Emma. And a whole lot of ‘em.” Her aunty wouldn’t even say the word in English. Guns. Her teacup shook with her hands. What the fuck was Tommy doing with stolen guns?

“The war kind too, oh. Now, if you know that a crate of turu has gone missing, and then Mr Shelby begins to walk around like he is the king of the world, it does not take a genius to figure it out. And your cousin, he was put away for a few days for scrapping, he heard they’re bringing in a whole new police boss to bring them in.” Once again, Emma did not bother correcting her aunty’s language. No black person in England wanted to know more about the police. Moreover, Emma’s mind was hurled back to days ago. 

_ “If you ever feel the need to stop by the police station, know there will be at least one friendly face there for you.” _

Well, perhaps her train ride was far more productive than she originally thought. Mr Campbell certainly appeared to be very fond of her. Esi must have recognised Emma’s “plotting face”, because she finished her tea quickly, complemented her niece’s baking skills, and left within the next twenty minutes, murmuring about putting dinner on for her husband. Emma wondered if this was the peak of life for black women in this filthy city. Scraping by, just avoiding violence, and gossiping with their kin, watching their children come in and out of prisons as if they were local pubs. But now was not the time to lament at the unfairness of the world. 

Wrapping the mandazi underneath a warm cloth and placing it in a basket, Emma set off to the gambling house. Today she wore green. The dress was not silk, but it was still far nicer than anything she would have worn in the past. However, her hair was tied up in one of her mother’s old scarves, a fading emerald that mirrored her own eyes. Her gloves tightened around her basket, and she marvelled the ensemble, so delicate in contrast to her plan for the day. 

When she entered the gambling house, she greeted the working men. She herself had worked counting bets, and knew it was hard work, and whilst the Shelbys were always fair with their wages, it could be difficult, living in poverty but being surrounded by money. Many of them enquired about her basket, and she laughed good-heartedly. “You know the rules boys. It goes to the bosses, and then the leftovers are free to be yours.” 

“But there’s never any fuckin leftovers!” A man Emma recognised as Danny exclaimed, his response earning a laugh across the room. “Such is the way of the world.” She responded, and sighed dramatically. The smile on her face lasted as she knocked on the door of the backroom, but the second she was ushered inside, both her smile and her basket dropped. 

Because there Arthur lay, bloody and beaten. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah! mixing cannon and fiction can be difficult. I just wanted to say thank you for all of your wonderful comments. please let me know what you think of all of my original characters. not just Emma, but her mother and Esi too. Not to mention our mysterious 'benefactor'


	7. Chapter Six - Afternoon Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma goes for afternoon tea with an unexpected friend.

The tearoom was ornate, to say the least, each table decorated with layered platters of sandwiches and cakes, tiny sets of china. Emma could see each table, filled with natural light, through the small door behind the waiter she now faced, who regarded her in a cool manner. “You do realise that we expect a certain level of decorum and class in this establishment?” His voice was in a venomous whisper, spitting at the brown girl before him. 

Gosh, these places were far easier to get into when she was the exotic companion of an heiress or student of some well off tutor. Life was easier being an accessory to a white counterpart than to show any independence. The sun burned far too bright to ever step out from under their shadow. And Emma was certainly not going to take that step today. Out of her small bag, a letter was produced. The letter. The passport to a life that was not her own. Her benefactor had written it himself, and with his family’s seal still intact, there was no denying that it was authentic. “He will also be covering the bill,” Emma added, trying to give the waiter her most innocent smile. By now all she wanted was to sit in the sunlight and drink her tea in peace. “Very well. Apologies for the hesitation, but you must understand-” 

“Of course, no apology needed.” Her smile made her lips and soul ache. How absurd it was for her to be accepted on merit alone. Life, her life, was one full of having to prove that you were worth anything at all. Over and over. She did not comment on the fact that she was seated in the furthest corner. Emma ordered the afternoon tea selection and opened her book. She did not dare read at home, where her mother who only knew enough reading to get her by at the gambling house. And the library was difficult, people constantly coming and inquiring about her reasons for being there. 

“Now what have I told you about Dickens?” Mr Campbell stood tall, looming over Emma, a smile saccharine sweet as he approached. It made her stomach turn. 

“Mr Campbell!” She hoped she sounded delighted at he sat, motioning to a nearby waiter to bring his own food to her table. “Are you going to stop me from reading my book once more? You, know, when my tutor asks why I have not advanced in the literature, I will be sure to send him your address.” Tommy would scoff at the way Emma was talking. A perversion of a higher class woman. And he would glower at the laugh they shared as Mr Campbell sat. The inspector was not subtle as he looked her up and down. She wore a white day dress and hat. She liked the contrast of white against her skin. Not as stark as it was when her mother wore white, which was like watching the goddess of the night enshroud herself with the silks of the moon, but it was there. Her skin felt as it was shrivelling as his eyes passed each part of her. It was a curiosity how men who labelled themselves as good, and respectable, acted around women they knew would let them get away with it. Women who must let them, for fear of the consequences. 

“Well, I will be sure to respond telling him that you have far better things to read than that, Miss Brant.” Again, that overcompensating smile. It reminded Emma of a far more sinister Cheshire Cat. “I hear there was quite the celebration of your return.” 

Emma gulped, knowing the cat was probably out of the bag concerning her association with the Peaky Blinders. “I was shocked to find out that you befriended such people, given your pleasant company, and their godless and lawless manner.” 

He still spoke tentatively to her, meaning she could pull favour back into her court. Having the local police inspector at her side was not an asset she was willing to lose. 

“They’re old family friends. They helped my mother when she first arrived at Small Heath.” Emma faced down whilst she said this, but she looked up, smiling bashfully. “Not many people are willing to hire a black mother on her own, Mr Campbell. And whilst I understand they may be terrible, ungodly people, I owe them my life.” God she was going to throw up on his shoes if he looked at her with any more pity. 

  
  


“Well,” His wrinkled hand on her own felt like sandpaper which had come to life. He leaned in, close enough to make her smell the bacon and coffee on his breath. “I will personally ensure that they can never hold that over you again.” Emma smiled in return, squeezing his hand. 

The rest of her time in the tearoom was spent talking about literature, God, and police work. Tommy really would have scoffed at her. 

* * *

  
  


That evening, she arrived at Polly’s home, not even bothering to knock. Finn rushed up to her, and she ruffled his hair and asked after his schooling. “Where’s your aunt, Finn?” Emma asked, and like a genie, she was summoned, arriving in the corridor. Emma stood, and accepted the cigarette in Pol’s offering hand, lightning it herself. “The boys are in the kitchen, come on.” Her voice was rough from what must have been arguing.

“The white was a good choice, he seemed to love it.” Emma thanked as they walked into the room. “Those godly types always do.” Arthur and John acknowledged Emma with a smile, Tommy didn’t take notice. She didn’t expect anything more from the bastard. 

“Could I have a drink please?” She allowed herself to fall into a heap onto the couch. Raising an eyebrow at her lack of manners, Polly patted her shoulder and murmured, “I’ll fix you a strong one, eh?”

“Thanks, Pol.” 

“So?”

“So…?”

“How was it?” 

“How was what?” 

Arthur stared at Emma, dumbfounded and slightly regretting opening his mouth. 

“Oh, you mean the afternoon tea with the Police Inspector that beat you to a living pulp? It was fine I suppose. He certainly likes me.” Taking another drag, Emma made eye contact with Tommy. That statement most definitely caught his attention. “He would like to go on a walk with me next week.” 

“No.” Tommy’s voice was definite. “There’s no need. We know he likes you, we can use that when we need to.” Absolutely not. He was not going to snatch away her only chance at feeling useful over his damn emotions. Tommy Shelby had no hold over her. 

“I wonder when would be a useful time to use a connection like that. Maybe, just maybe, it would be when the very officer who has decided on going on a fucking warpath against you, your family, and anyone who has even heard the name Shelby, is the same officer that fancies me?” It was not very often that Emma got angry, but the stakes were too high for her patience to hold out. Campbell had not stopped at the beating of Arthur to get his point across to the Shelbys, the police had raided the homes of everyone on Watery Lane. Her mother was in the bath when it happened. They made her stand out in just a shawl, laughing as she shivered. That night, Emma came to Polly with the plan of using the Chief Inspector’s fondness for her in order to undermine his regime. 

Despite his calm exterior, it seemed that Tommy was just as willing to go to toe to toe with Emma. “And how far will this go, eh? Are you happy to spread your legs for that filthy copper? Willing to let him propose?” Standing up, he stepped towards the girl, looking down. “Would you marry a pig, just to get information? EH?”

Emma stood up right after, her level voice not betraying her anger, unlike the fire in her eyes. “We both know that a respectable man like Inspector Campbell would never marry a darkie, Tommy.” She spat.

“Nevertheless, you’ll not see him until Tommy says so, will you?” The peacemaker returned with a drink. Emma looked with betrayal in her eyes at Polly as she took the glass from her hands. “Only if he can promise to find a way to get the copper’s foot from our necks.” 

“Already done. Wrap up warm ladies, we are going to have a bonfire tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooh, a little more of Emma's manipulative side came out today


	8. Chapter Seven - Reflections and Friendships

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy reflects on his relationship with Emma. Emma makes a new friend

The bonfire had gone just as Tommy planned it to. The letter from Campbell requesting a meeting at some tearoom lay on the table, as he predicted it would the night before. He smoked as he read it. The move was brilliant, ingenious, bold. No one could deny that. But every victory seemed like it must be haunted by her. Emma did not come to the fire, instead, she finished her drink and muttered something about being home for her mother. She didn’t look at him as she left. 

Tommy knew that he should be happy that she was keeping her distance. Meeting with Campbell made her feel useful, he could see that, but she had shown no interest in gambling, or the apparent death of Danny “Wizz-bang”. Though, when visiting the cemetery, there were tulips on his grave. Somehow, he knew Emma left them. He should be grateful that she was not intruding on his plans, especially now he had crossed the Lee family. After all, despite what Polly or Arthur may say, Emma Brant was no family of his. 

And she was different, now. He used to be able to make that girl melt, through his words, or his touch. She would look up at him with those big green eyes as if he could do no wrong in this world, and even when she saw him in his worst moments, violent and rageful, she would look at him the same, and pull his soul up with her, from whatever depths it will inevitably fall. She stopped him doing countless terrible things. His little lifeline. 

Though Tommy had not left to serve on the best terms with her, hers was the face she still looked for first, in the sea of people who arrived at the ship's docking when he returned from France. And when Polly told him that she was gone, he still waited. Some days, he would stand at the train station for hours, looking for a head of curly hair or a flash of brown skin. After a month, he pleaded, practically begged, Joanne to tell him the name of the man who took Emma away. But she refused. 

“I will not let you ruin my daughter’s only chance at success and happiness.” Joanne’s eyes were almost as wild and desperate as Tommy’s, pained with the burden of being separated from her daughter, but also refusing to let her live the same life as her mother. 

“She is too bright and delicate for this place, Mr Shelby.” The unspoken words hung in the air. _Too bright and delicate for you_. 

He had tried to find her through other avenues, of course. But all of the letters she had sent to Polly and Ada had no return address, and both of them sent their letters to a post office, in London. Emma was either being hidden away from him, or she did not want to be found. After the third month passed, he gave up looking. After the fourth, he laid with another woman. And on the first day of the sixth month, three days before she returned, Tommy vowed to never let that woman near his heart again. 

It seemed that Emma was doing her best to make it easy for him, though he was just as shocked as the others at her arrival. She was as beautiful as the day he last saw her, years ago. But even though she hugged him, he could feel the shift between them in the air. Like the pressure changing as you dug deeper underground. He still did not know if that shift came from him, or from her. That night, when she pushed him off her, Tommy knew he deserved it. He was testing the waters, wondering if she was still willing to let him get away with anything. 

Unlike he had expected, her newfound self-respect did not kill her kindness. He saw the way she laughed with and cared for the rest of his family, the baked goods she brought for his working men, and though he did not like her doing it, it was undeniable that her deceiving Campbell was brave. Emma had not grown cold towards the world, as Tommy had, but cold towards one man. 

That man probably deserved it. 

Moreover, there were plenty of beautiful women in Birmingham. Not to mention that barmaid that had been making eyes at him since she got the job. Grace, her name was. Her hair was not dark and wild, but flaxen and tamed, she was tall and lithe, and Irish. Like his preferred whiskey. Emma seemed to notice her beauty too, calling her pretty in passing. 

Dismissing thoughts of the women who surrounded him, Tommy turned his thoughts to Billy Kimber. Monaghan Boy had finally lost, and it was obvious that the race was fixed for anyone who had spent more than two seconds on the track. He expected a visit from Kimber very soon. And Tommy Shelby was full of bold moves.

* * *

  
  
  


The Garrison was practically empty at three pm. It was the day after the fire, and Harry had asked for some Jamaican ginger ale and mandazi. Who was Emma to say no to the owner of the only pub that a black person could feel safe drinking in? But Harry was not at the bar. Rather, the pretty blonde woman stood, cleaning glasses. Grace, Emma had learned her name was. 

“Emma, yes?” She was Irish. Emma did not think she had ever heard her speak before. 

“Harry said you’d be here. Can I get you a drink?” 

“Dark ale, please.” Emma took her seat at the bar, placing her basket down and watching as the woman hummed to herself, a smile half there on her pink lips. “You seem to be in a shining mood, any particular reason?” 

She hoped she came across genuine. Having a new friend would be invaluable in Emma’s current position. Someone who was completely separated from the Shelbys and the Blinders and especially him. 

“You know Tommy Shelby, right?” Fuck. 

“We grew up together. My mother and Polly are particularly close.” Emma took a large gulp of her drink. The last thing she wanted to be doing was to be discussing that man, but she could tell that Grace wanted to know more. 

“But you were close with him too? People talk about it all the time around here. They said you were the only person that could calm the storm of Tommy Shelby.” Eyes were rolled at that. Emma always thought that those assertions were ridiculous. She could barely stand the title of “princess” the same people would push on her. 

“Well, those people clearly don’t know Tommy. Nothing can stop that man from doing anything. Not even God himself.” Taking another gulp, Emma decided to get this over with. Like ripping off a plaster. “We grew up together. We were friends, best friends, for years. Then he went to war and I went to London. We came back and we weren’t as close. Why? A nice girl like you should not be interested in Tommy Shelby, for your sake.” 

“He asked me to the races today.” Pain soared through Emma’s heart. “As a job, he gave me money for a dress.” 

“How much?” Emma looked into the brown liquid before her, wishing she had asked for something stronger.

“Three pounds.” Grace was returned with a scoff from the woman in front of her. 

“If you want to know one thing I’ve learnt from being close to Tommy, it’s never do any work for him under a fiver. It is always worse work than what you sign up for.” Emma finished her drink. “Ask for more at different times, an extra quid here, fifty pence there. He’s always too preoccupied to notice.” 

Grace nodded, her eyes now wandering over to the basket. Emma laughed to herself and lifted the cloth, the sweet smell of cinnamon and nutmeg filling the room. “Go on, try one. They're a family recipe.”

Taking a piece and biting, Grace hummed in appreciation. “How are you enjoying Birmingham?” Emma asked, and happily spent the next few hours chatting with the barmaid who had caught the eye of the man she once loved. 

“-I’m stood there, with me garters inside out, both legs stuck in one stocking and my dress still on my fuckin bed, and this maid that they’d sent for me to tell me dinners ready, bursts into the room. And I’m like, don’t just stand there love, give me a bloody hand, or he’ll have my head!” Grace guffawed at Emma’s story, both of them wiping tears away from the corners of their eyes. 

“My, it seemed like London was quite a time for you.” Emma nodded at Grace’s statement. “Oh, it’s like another world. It’s all cocktail clubs and feather boas and people from every damned country on earth. Places you’ve never even heard of, and there are twelve people all from there.” Lighting a cigarette for both of them, she sighed. She really did miss London, the noise of it at night. She could drown in all the lights and forget who she was. 

“And the men?” Grace’s smile was coy. “Not allowed on my agenda, I’m afraid. But from what little I did experience, they all looked like they came out of one of Da Vinci’s paintings.” Fraternising, of any sort, was a good way for Emma to swiftly lose all of the privileges and opportunities that she had been gifted with. 

By now, the bar began to fill, men off their work shifts, desperate for a pint before bed. Harry finally arrived, taking his gifts gratefully. And not long after, the Shelby’s arrived. Arthur motioned for Emma to come and join them, and with an apologetic look towards her new acquaintance, who had become busy with the patrons, Emma moved to sit at their table. 

“You getting along with the new barmaid, Princess?” John asked, pouring her a glass of whiskey. “A young woman can never have too many friends, John.” Emma took her glass and drank, happy to get some proper alcohol in her system. 

“What did you talk about then?” John asked, seemingly curious. “Oh, dresses, perfume, boys,” her eyes flashed to Tom, whose face was set like marble, “you know. Women’s business. She did take some interest in my time in London, though.” 

“What where you had tea wiv the king and came back speaking like a toff?” Arthur laughed, pretending to sip his drink as if it were tea in fine china, his pinky pointed outwards, which prompted a swift “shut up” from his young friend. The chuckles from the table and the jovial atmosphere within the bar quickly ended though, as the doors of the bar swung open. 

And in walked Billy Kimber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some tommy pov for you guys today :)  
> thank you so much for your words of encouragement.  
> please leave reviews and kudos if you'd like!


	9. Chapter Eight - Simple Pleasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy has a meeting with Mr Kimber, then celebrates with Emma.

Exactly one month ago today, Emma had been invited to the dinner party of one Lady Hertfordshire. They had eaten both French and English delicacies, each spanning eight courses of maybe the best food Emma had taken. They then drank cocktails in her parlour, and Emma was able to discuss Shakespear, Descartes, and Galileo with some of the greatest and most affluent minds in the country. All of this discussion, of course, was accompanied by a string quartet playing classics in the corner. 

Today she was sat in a pub that stank of the vomit and piss the men had excreted in the metal tubs at the bar, was drinking cheap Irish whiskey, and sat directly next to the men who pissed off the biggest bookmaker in Birmingham, who had, of course, just burst in with men holding guns. At least she was still able to wear nice clothes, she thought as she sat in her lilac dress. She tried to think of the reason she had swapped out her former life, for this. 

Tommy had quickly cleared out the pub, but Arthur placed a hand on her leg as Emma stood to go too. The eldest brother still firmly believed her to be part of the family, so she was to stay for family business. Tommy did not say anything as she sat back down. There were more pressing issues at hand. 

Kimber was perhaps one of the most unpleasant men that Emma had seen Tommy do business with. But it was also clear that the man was thick as shit, and would be easy to win over. She swallowed as Tommy revealed that he was at war with the Lees, who were a common enemy with Kimber. It was a smart move, of course, but the Lees were considered kin to her, the gypsies who had taken her mother in. It was clear that Tommy was willing to cut strong ties in order to move on in the world. Kimber and his accountant took little interest in her, besides the former eyeing her up once or twice. But it was obvious that Grace was far more his cup of tea. Tommy was also willing to take some serious hits to his ego, it seemed, as he picked up a coin that Kimber had thrown on the ground, clearly signalling that their partnership was not going to be equal. They left as obnoixiously as they arrived and the whole thing seemed rather underwhelming if advantageous to Emma. 

“You started a war with the Lees then?” Emma’s question may have seemed casual if a little rude to Arthur, John and the few staff that resided in the pub, but Tommy knew she was angry. The Lees were her kin after all, and since her mother refused to tell her the identity of her father, it was always assumed he resided in the Lee clan. 

“They called my mum a whore.” Tommy spoke plainly, speaking mostly truthfully. 

“So you let them start a war over playground insults? Lord bless the boys you went to school with.” She laughed bitterly, lighting a cigarette. 

“Wars have been started over less, sweetheart.” He did not want to argue with her, not tonight and not in front of Grace.

“Not by you.” It seemed that Emma was unconcerned with her surroundings. Though she, arguments and the Garrison had a long love affair. Those few times where she had snapped, fueled by alcohol and often by Tommy egging her on, resulted in explosions in her character that you would never expect. He remembered fondly of the time she had spat in the face of a police officer who had said something about the intelligence of blacks compared to whites. Now, that rare anger had settled on him, no longer explosive, but cold and calculative. 

“You’ve been gone for a long time, Emma. People change.” 

That hurt her, he could see, and his heart ached when the pain flashed in her eyes, but what he said was right. Who was she to comment on his actions?

“Now, Grace! Bring us another bottle and then go home, Harry will close up for you.” Tommy ordered, clapping his hands. Tonight was a celebration in his plan working almost perfectly. 

“Yes Grace, I’m sure you’re looking forward to the races now.” Shit. Of course Emma had found out, her newfound friendship with the barmaid had already thrown a spanner in the works. 

But, he only bristled at her words, and stared as Grace brought their drink, her smile not directed at him but at Emma, who smiled right back, obviously playing their friendliness up to annoy Tommy. No confrontation tonight. Just drinking, laughing and plotting for his next move. It was almost like when they were young, and Tommy would drunkenly announce to his brothers that one day, their family were going to be royalty in Birmingham. He was getting as close as he could. 

The clock above the bar ticked on and drinks were poured, and as it chimed for eleven, Emma rose once more, only to be once more stopped by Arthur. 

“C’mon Emma, you’ve been back nearly two weeks now and you’ve not had a single proper night out.” Arthur's voice was sympathetic but firm, and she sighed. It was true that she was restraining herself far more than she had in the past, only allowing herself to become tipsy on the night of her return, and barely drinking since. She had rationalised it of course, if she were to be drunk, she was far more likely to let her walls down around Tommy. But her history with him was not the fault of Arthur or John, and she knew she was being unfairly distant towards the family. 

“Alright. I will join you on two conditions. First, I am not paying for a single drink.” Arthur laughed and nodded. “You never have!” John added, before allowing her to continue. 

“Secondly, you must play this drinking game I learned from these Oxford students, and then we will see who doesn't know how to have a proper night out.” They both guffawed, and Emma sat down, before beginning to explain the rules of the game, which was called “pennies”. Whoever had a penny in the bottom of their drink, had to “save the queen from drowning” and down it as quickly as possible. However, if two people had put a penny into the same drink, the person who’s drink it was could then give the drink to someone else, in order to down it. It was a game of sleight of hand, distractions, and cunning. Emma had not thought out the fact that she was about to play it with three criminals. 

An hour in, and Emma was already feeling it. Of course, she could handle her alcohol, any Blinder worth their title could, however, there was no comparison between her and the Shelbys. They had shifted tables, moving to Tommy’s preferred seat, inside the booth. Emma found it ironic that he still demanded privacy in an empty pub, but despite the initial humour of his actions, she worried for the state of his paranoia. A man convinced that he needed to sit, locked away from the rest of the world, in order to feel safe, was a man haunted by loneliness. Nevertheless, they drank in the booth, lamplight and alcohol warming them.

Emma sat next to John and Arthur on either side, with Tommy opposite her. John was telling a story about his children, Emma was trying her best to listen. John had changed the least, she thought as she watched him, animated and grand, cigarette half hanging out of his mouth as he spoke, his arms flailing to add dramatic effect to his tale. His children seemed to bring new life to him. Arthur had a sad look in his eye, accompanied by a bruised fist every time he saw Emma. And Tommy. Tommy now looked onto the world, onto people, as if they were something to conquer, miniscule obstacles, inhibiting his deathly ambition.

Yet, for now, through her alcohol induced haze, he resembled the boy she once adored.

If she tried, she could see a man not aged by horror. One that looked upon her as an equal. Young eyes, which looked at her with love and bright confidence. The boy that rode horses with her in Charlie’s scrapyard, who taught her romani, who held her back from certain police officers. Even for him, she reflected bitterly, even for the boy she missed with all of her soul, she was not good enough.

This time, she was happy to see the copper coin at the bottom of her drink, no doubtedly dropped in there whilst she was thinking. Maybe whiskey could wash away the sour taste of jealousy in the back of her throat. She swallowed her drink dutifully, only wincing a little when she slammed the glass back down. 

The obvious benefit to watching Emma drink, Tommy thought, was it was the only way to let her look at him with kind eyes again. He used to find it plainly amusing, watching the girl become louder and larger than life, she waltzed around the bar with John, and held staring competitions with Arthur. She even argued with him about horses. 

“Shut your fuckin mouth Tommy, you only say that because you can’t handle mares!” She laughed, and he reveled in the sound. It was light, effortless, so natural compared to the stiff civility she had offered him sober.

Years ago, he would have found this simply endearing. Now, it was bittersweet, tinged with the knowledge that whiskey was the only thing that would make her let those walls down before him. Even then, he knew this wasn’t for him, but for his brothers. 

  
  


By the time the clock struck two, she must have drank half a bottle of whiskey by herself. John and Arthur were not in the best of states either. Truthfully, Tommy enjoyed slipping pennies into their cups, and watching them be surprised. He only found one or two in his own, so he still had his faculties about him. “Right, Johnny boy, Arthur, I’ll see youse tomorrow, eh?” His voice was gruff from the alcohol, his accent as strong as ever as he clasped each brother on the back of their necks and sent them off into the night. He nodded to Harry, who he felt slightly sorry for, and then turned to his final task of the night. 

Emma was still waltzing, by herself this time. She hummed a tune that he didn’t recognise, her eyes closed and a furrowed as she stepped along with her vocals. It was not a look of drunken assuredness, as one may expect from the dancing girl, but rather a look of grim determination. This, to her, was a challenge to be conquered. 

“I can feel your eyes on me, Mr Shelby.” She smiled when she spoke, but did not open her eyes, still allowing her feet to carry her around the room. “You know, he said if I could perfect this one, I could go with him to have dinner with the King.” She floated past him, arms holding an imaginary partner. A Duke perhaps, or a Lord, or a politician. Someone far above Tommy’s standing both socially, and content of character. 

“And which song is this, Emma?” He asked, humouring her in her intoxicated position. “Certainly none of the songs I taught you.”

“It’s Strauss. Rosen Aus Dem Suden, Roses of the South. Which is pretty ironic, considering I am a Birmingham born bastard.” She giggled, and it was sweet, childlike, but empty. Pain lied not far beneath the surface of that statement. “You’d like Strauss, Tommy. He has an entire waltz called ‘Wine, Women and Song.’” 

She tripped this time, and her eyes opened, the song seemingly finished. Tommy rushed to pick her up, pulling an arm over his shoulder and taking her by the waist. “That’s enough dancing for tonight, my girl. Let’s get you home, eh?” 

Emma shook her head violently. “No! I want your bed.” Her feet stood firmly, planted to the ground until she got what she wanted. 

He rolled his eyes fondly, “alright I’ll let you sleep in my bed and use my bath in the morning if you agree to not vomit on my shoes.”

The girl pondered for a moment, before reaching out her free hand to shake with his. “Pleasure doing business wiv ya, Shelby.” She spoke in an awful impression of Billy Kimber’s voice, and Tommy couldn’t help but guffaw as he walked out of the pub with her. 

The walk to his house was cold, but short. Tommy did his best to keep Emma warm, rubbing her shoulder as she walked, feeling her shivering underneath his touch. She never adjusted well to the cold. She only stopped once to throw up, and she dutifully missed his shoes, aiming for a gutter instead. When they entered his small home, she left his grip, practically sprinting up the stairs to his room. He poured himself another drink, and her a large glass of water, before following her decidedly less enthusiastically. When he arrived, sat on his bed, looking around her. 

“It's the same.” Emma stated. 

“Nothing needed changing.” Tommy reasoned, handing her the glass of water which she took, taking a sip.

“You said that you’d changed.” Her tone was accusatory now. 

“No, darling, I said people change. And they do. Now, drink your water and go to sleep, you’ve had quite the night.” 

By the time Tommy had taken his shirt and pants off, ready for bed, Emma was half asleep, tucked under his blanket, her dress thrown into a corner. The bed dipped slightly, alerting her, but she didn’t open her eyes. 

“D’ya wanna know the best thing about tonight?”

“What was it, Emma?”

“Being able to talk to you normally. D’ya wanna know the worst part?”

“Hmm?”

“Finding out I’m never going to be your first choice.” 

And with a peaceful stretch and yawn, Emma’s hand laid on Tommy’s chest, after her words successfully crushed his joy. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, hello my dears, apologies for the delayed chapter, however, Christmas got in the way.   
> I hope everyone had a wonderful and safe holiday!   
> Speaking of, I recently uploaded a very NSFW, Christmas themed Tommy oneshot. Though I do use a name for the character, it can basically be read as a reader insert. It is called "Yuletide Joy" and is the only other work I've uploaded, so check it out if you'd like.   
> Anyway, for this chapter, we finally get to see Tommy and Emma being kind to one another, which is a nice change for once.   
> As always, leave comments and kudos at your behest!


	10. Chapter Nine - The Morning After

He woke before her, his eyes opening to the dim light of the foggy day outside. It had been months since true sunlight had reached Birmingham. Instead, the skies were a hazy wash of white with ugly splotches grey, uniformly dull, dictating the days of business and violence. The only changes were whether it was raining or not, yet the rain was a welcome change to Tommy, at least it disrupted the taunting stillness of the hideous sky. 

Usually, his bed would be still too. Still and cold. But she lay next to him, her small hand on his chest, her face hidden by a delightful mop of curls. He breathed in deeply, the smell of her and the ashes of a long-forgotten fire invading his nose. In the daze of the early morning, the remnants of sleep having arrested his senses, his logic, Tommy allowed his mind to wander to a place, a time where it was possible that each ugly morning would be graced by the girl who laid on his chest, peacefully resting. He imagined early breakfasts, warm tea, sharing baths and getting dressed. He pictured her fastening each button on his shirt, whispering sweet words as she did, as he knew she could. 

A ring on her finger.

Looking down at Emma’s small frame, he didn’t dare move, praying she would sleep a little longer, stretching this moment out ceaselessly, because the second those beautiful eyes opened, the spell would be broken, and his fantastical indulgence would be proven to be impossible.

Emma knew where she was before she opened her eyes. Memories of the previous night had come rushing to her the second that her dream had faded away from her, disorganised and blurred but undeniable. She had accepted the truth of the situation the moment she was awake, yes, yet the desire to open her eyes was distant, nagging and ignored. She did not want to face him at that moment, at least, not with the cool manner she would be forced to don. It was so exhausting to have to pretend to hate him, even though he deserved her hate, her vitriol, all of it. Putting on a lie every day for the sake of justice was still lying. And lying was so very tiring to her. 

The bed was cold, presumably empty, although wafts of tea and toast roused her. Her head felt as if it were about to be split in half, the pressure behind her eyes demanding a steaming warm drink. Thus reluctantly, she allowed herself to rouse from the tenuous state of peace the bed gifted. 

Neither of them had seemed to bother themselves with a fake sense of modesty. Tommy was in his kitchen with his vest and trousers, Emma walked down the stairs in her underdress, a shawl she found in one of his dressers wrapped around her shoulders and her hair untamed, curls sticking out in every direction. The room boasted a larger fire than her mother’s, the warmth was received gratefully by Emma as she sat in Tommy’s large armchair, a new addition for her since she had last been in the room. Tommy watched as she curled in the chair like a cat, one hand wrapping her shawl further across her body, the other cradling her brow. He was silent as he brought over her breakfast, then sitting down in the chair opposite, opening a paper. The mundanity of it all made it a conscious effort not to allow his mind to wander again.

She ate quietly, knowing she needed something to line her stomach. He read she ate, the fire crackled in the background, occasionally Tommy would turn a page or tut at a story. Time felt alien to her there, not knowing how long they spent in this slice of peace. Emma felt a sense of calm settle over her, only tinged by fear of what would happen when someone was to speak. And she reflected as she stared into her perfectly made tea, with two lumps of sugar and the tiniest splash of milk, that she needn’t be drunk to see the ‘old Tommy’ because he was still there. He had changed, of course, and he had still wronged her, terribly, almost as much as she had wronged him, yet, he made her tea exactly right, he took her home and held her in the cold, he stayed silent when he knew that was what she needed. Tommy was still the same in the manner in which he knew her, better than she knew herself. 

For the first time since she left, since she got on that train a year and a half ago, intending to never come back, Emma looked on her relationship with Tommy not with fear, trepidation or anger, but with hope. 

It must have been another half an hour before Tommy finished his paper and his own tea. He stood, Emma’s eyes flitted up, looking at him hesitantly. 

“I have a meeting at the Garrison, and I need to see Charlie.” His voice was calm, sympathetic even. Emma knew that he needed this as much as she did. 

“Will Curly be there?” She asked he nodded in response. “Can I come? I haven’t seen either of them since I got back.”

Tommy wiped a hand over his face, pondering something she couldn’t discern. However, his thoughts seemed to lean toward her favour. “Alright. You’ll have to stop at home for some new clothes though.” 

“It’s no worry. Mum will probably be scared shitless by now anyway.” He laughed at that, Emma’s mother did tend to be overly cautious. 

“Ok.” It had been a long time since they had smiled at each other, though it came naturally. Emma was almost blown away at how mesmerising he looked when he was smiling. The look on his face was gone almost as quickly as it came, so fast she wondered for a moment if she had imagined it. He looked at the ground now, a question teetering on his lips. 

“Can we talk about it?” He asked.

She was not expecting that, though she supposed she should have. It was inevitable. There was no conceivable way that they could carry on like this without addressing what happened before she left. But she was desperate to delude herself a little while longer.

Carefully, almost ghost-like, she took his face in her hands, reaching up, her green eyes meeting her brown. Her hands were warm against his pale cheeks. “What happened, what we lost, how we hurt, it’s all behind us. Let’s just go a little while longer pretending it didn’t happen?”

Her words weren’t forgiveness, he knew that. What they were, was an invitation. A truce, for now. Permission for him to be closer to her, to accept her kindness, her warmth, all of the things she had kept from him these past weeks. On the condition that the events of the past were left there. He reached up to her hands, his own eclipsing them, as he nodded in agreement. She hummed graciously, then stepped back, adjusting her shawl. “What are the chances that I’d be able to get away with running home in just this?” Emma joked. 

“I’d say, with Brummie men? About 1 in 1000.” 

* * *

  
  


It hadn’t taken Emma long to get ready in her own home. She apologised to her mother, who calmed down only after checking her daughter over six times for bruises. Her bath was mostly cold as she hardly let the water heat, and her hair was plaited at either side, rather than put up or slicked back. She wore trousers, a fashionable pant-suit she was gifted within her first week away. Although, when she looked in the mirror, Emma looked more like she did before she left than ever before. Her cheeks were flushed from the quick wash, her hair done hastily and most importantly, there was a shine in her eyes, only ever-present when she was excited to go see Tommy. Running down the stairs and slipping her coat and hat on, she shouted a half goodbye to her mother, before leaving the house. 

Tommy waited, as he always did, directly in the middle of their houses. He took a deep drag of his cigarette as she approached. Her walk was casual, as he watched it he wondered if she was doing this for his sake or her own. Either way, he would happily take it. He had missed her, terribly, now that she seemingly came back to him, he would not take it for granted. 

The first thing he did was offer her a cigarette, which she accepted gratefully. The air outside was cooler than it was in his front room, and it seemed that neither of them knew quite what to say as they walked to the shipyard. The walk was awkward, only accompanied by the shuffling of feet and occasional hello to a person they both knew.

“Has Curly been ok?” She asked, breaking the silence after nearly five minutes. “I wanted to send them letters, but I wasn’t allowed.” 

“He’s been fine, as has Charlie. They’ve missed you, but who hasn’t?” He looked down at her as they walked, choosing not to acknowledge the bashful blush that was creeping over her face. “So the man who swept you away from us doesn’t allow you to send letters home, eh?” His tone balanced the line between curious and accusatory. 

“It’s not like that, Tommy. Mr Kempe is a good and generous man. He has given me a life that I could have only dreamed of when I was younger. For that life, for the station I have been gifted, to be respected, a structure must be implemented.” The genuine nature of her voice inspired nothing but jealousy for Tommy, nevertheless, he strained to keep his words humorous and casual. 

“Ah, so he does have a name!” He exclaimed, and much to his delight, she laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. 

“He does. He is just rather elusive.” Tommy hummed in response, as they arrived at the shipyard. He stayed behind as Emma rushed forward, hugging and kissing both Charlie and Curly on each cheek. They shared fond words, with it only taking moments before Curly was tugging Emma to the small barn, excited to show her around. 

Charlie’s smile remained as he approached Tommy, despite the disagreement they had about the guns. “Well, there’s something I did not expect!” His uncle chuckled, making Tommy wonder when the last time he had seen him happy. “Is she back for good?”

Tommy shrugged. “At least for a few months.” 

“Well, it’s good to know she’s here. Maybe she can knock some sense into you.” 

“Emma doesn’t know about the guns, Charlie. And she won’t.”

Finally, the smile dissipated. “Why not?”

“She’s not to be put in any danger by our fucking business. She’s had a chance to get out, I’m not going to stop her.” Charlie was silent, for a moment, shaking his head. “Have you talked to the copper?” 

“Yesterday. Before the business with Kimber. He’ll leave us be, I’ve ensured it.” The meeting with Campbell was not something Tommy wanted to think about, not knowing that he had eyes for Emma. 

“You’re juggling too much Tommy.” Charlie’s words were admonishing in theory, yet they were said with an air of care and respect. 

“Someone has to.” 

The rest of the time at the shipyard they spent discussing the coming business with Kimber, whilst waiting for Emma to finish catching up with Curly. They had always been close, Curly not understanding why Emma used to get treated a certain way by other people, Emma sympathising with Curly’s struggle to acclimate to normal society. Most of all, they both loved horses. Of course, when Emma grew older, she spent less time at the shipyard, but there was always a place for him in her heart. 

“Tommy! I adore your horse! I may have to steal it away.” Emma exclaimed, running towards the pair. The beast Tommy had bought was a beautiful grey mare, whose white fur and mane shone like moonlight. “You’re welcome to ride her anytime, Emma,” Charlie answered for Tommy, despite it not being his horse. “I’m definitely going to take you up on that.” She smiled. Tommy half expected her to enquire about what they were talking about, however, she just stood there, unsure of what they were doing next. His mind was cast back to when they were children when she used to follow him around like a lost puppy. They said their goodbyes to Charlie, Emma’s far warmer than his, and headed off, Emma going home and Tommy to the Garrison.

“You’re going to meet with someone?” She asked, in a far more agreeable tone than she had on the walk there.

“Some paddies have apparently shown interest in doing some business.” He replied, wanting to be open with her.

“So you’re not just going to see the pretty new staff?” The question was said casually, jokingly enough, yet Tommy heard the implications behind it. 

“No. I am not going solely to see Grace. And you’re one to talk, I’m sure you had eyes for loads of Dukes and Lords and the like.” He knew she heard the jealousy in his voice, venomous and sharp. 

“Flirting? Yes, sure. Anything past that? No, Tommy. I made a promise, it wasn’t an empty one. I remained loyal to you. Lord knows the reason why.” Her laugh was bitter but fell on deaf ears as relief washed over him. He knew he was being chauvinistic, despite that, the knowledge that her skin was not tainted by another man’s touch allowed him to breathe easily. He stopped walking, reaching his hand out to hers, looking her in the eyes.

“You aren’t the second choice to me, Emma. Grace is bait for Kimber, nothing more.”

“Tell that to her.” Her voice was small like a child’s would be, her eyes shifting downcast. Vulnerability presented to him in a way that made him want to hide her away from the shit of the streets, the blast of guns and the hedonistic high of his life. Before he could speak, however, she pulled her hands from his, straightening her back, the softness of her demeanour washed away in a flash. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” She sounded strained. “I am not your wife, Tommy. Or your partner, or even your equal, socially. You needn’t consult me on matters of your heart, I needn’t consult you on mine, as they are neither of our concerns. I want to be friends.” 

“Friends it is.”


End file.
